


Coffee Time

by Hidn



Series: Tank Treads and Empty Heads [1]
Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Genre: Tankers (Ew.)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:21:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hidn/pseuds/Hidn
Summary: In which Dirk first appears. I promise nothing.
Relationships: no. - Relationship
Series: Tank Treads and Empty Heads [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190561
Kudos: 2





	Coffee Time

Dirk didn't fit in at Sicario. There was no reason for him to be there. Normal people don't become mercenaries. Dirk, in his several months here, hadn't met a person that could be considered mentally sound. There were plenty of people he liked, of course. He trusted a few of them with his life as well. He had to, but nonetheless. Dirk had met people who he would lay down everything for, and they would do the same. Yet he still didn't trust them with his coffee. 

Coffee was in his blood. Almost literally. His family ran one of the largest coffee businesses in the Federation. From the age of 6, Dirk knew coffee. He didn't know how to talk to a woman, or how to make a pancake, but he could make coffee. 

It was one of the reasons he didn't fit in. There were several, of course, but it stood out the most. The mercs he worked with drank coffee for one thing - caffeine. Jerk, the gunner in his tank, ate the grounds half the time. The commander would boil his water off of the machine gun heat, mix in some instant powder, and drop a caffeine pill in. It made Dirk want to vomit. 

Dirk drank his coffee for the flavour. And he knew a good coffee. When the tanks had dropped on Rowsdower AFB, Dirk made sure his team had some good coffee. It had worked - their tank was considered the most combat effective that mission. He'd been paid a lot for that. 

And he owed someone. Big time. 

The tank Dirk drove had an attitude. If they hadn't treated her just right, she'd through a fit and sheer some gear in the transmission. And before that jump, someone had pissed her off. One of the gears had broken, and there were no spares. 

Thankfully, there was an angel at work in Sicario. The Logi officer could work miracles. They'd gotten a spare gear for the transmission on short notice, Hell, the original gear had broken less than 12 hours before takeoff. The Logi officer got a request, got the gear, and had it installed in less than a day.

That sort of work was practically a miracle. 

So, Dirk got to work. He knew the family trade, and he put it to use. He had brought some special gear for special occasions, and now was one. Beans from his farm. A hand-cranked mill, with a custom stone grinder. An extremely fine custom filter. A mug cut of a single piece of granite, rimmed with silver. A bottle of water, specifically filtered for taste. Metal dripper. A copper pot - just a normal one. It was old too, but Dirk swore by it. 

He moved through the process, trained muscles deftly dancing over each individual step. He could've done it with his eyes closed. But he didn't. He took his time - this was a gift. His mother had drilled that into him. They made coffee, and they made it well. You made an impression, and you lubricated the gears of the body, the soul, and business. 

Drop by drop, the coffee fell into the mug. The aroma filled the room, moreso than it had before. The rich liquid filled the mug, warm, steaming, and tantalizing. 

Dirk lifted the cup, carefully. He placed a small plate on top, to trap the heat. Now was the challenge. 

He stepped out of the canteen. Looking out, he could see the Circus barracks. From what Dally had told him, he could find the Logi officer nine-times out of ten at the Hitman Hangers. Dirk was pretty sure he knew where that was. 

He placed foot after foot, carefully choosing his steps to not disturb a single droplet. He had to optimize his speed and his balance to deliver the best version of the drink possible. 

Somehow, he managed to get to the hangar quickly, without spilling a drop. 

He opened the side door to the hangar. It was dominated by a jet, of course, and many, many spare parts. It was quiet, and the door shutting echoed.

Dirk stood there for a moment. Then a footstep echoed through the hangar. A person walked out from behind the jet, oblivious to him. 

It was a Ronin. It was quite easy to tell. The Circus guys all generally wore the same thing. The more standardized, the easier. Ronins, though, were different. They wore whatever the hell they want.

Some looked like they stepped right out of a super-spy movie. Some looked liked they walked into a surplus closet and took everything that stuck to them. That kind of fashion stands out.

This Ronin was different. First off, Dirk had never seen them. Secondly, they had shoulder length hair. Half of the people on base had hair that was less than an inch. Most didn't let it get past their ears. Thirdly, the hair was pure white.

Dirk cleared his throat. They didn't notice.

"Uh, excuse me?" 

The Ronin span, eyes locking directly at Dirk. He suddenly felt far more out of his element. 

"The fuck do you need?" She uttered a low growl, but the nature of the Hangar bounced it back.

"I, uh, um, was looking for the, uh, Logi Officer. I was told they would be here."

"I am. The fuck do you need?" She was quite angry, apparently.

"Uh, nothing. I just… You helped fix our tank really quickly, so I wanted to thank you. I, uh, made this coffee." Dirk held the coffee up in front of him, half embarrassed with his gift, half shielding himself with it.

She glared at him. He very much wanted to leave.

"I'll, just, uhh… leave this on the table over there." He shuffled over to the folding table, overcrowded with paperwork. He managed to find an open area, and placed it down. 

He walked, half ran, out the door. His heart was racing. She was fucken scary, man. 

Legion walked over to the table, grabbing a requisition form. She squinted at it. 

Her hand reached over to the mug. 

It was still warm.


End file.
